


Artistic Observations

by grantaire (AllieisaWriter)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Depression, Friendship/Love, Gen, I cry and my tears are Grantaire, Male Friendship, sad Grantaire is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 15:07:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllieisaWriter/pseuds/grantaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>cw: depressive thoughts</p><p>Grantaire tries to paint the people he loves most, but he can't seem to get them to sparkle on canvas like they do in life. <br/>                   "And just for that moment, Grantaire wished to believed in the way he believed in them. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Artistic Observations

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank my buddy Sandra for reading this and then telling me not to be an idjit when I panicked and wanted to delete it. She is truly my Enjolras! 
> 
> Anyway, I've had some dark thoughts lately and thought the best way to get rid of them would be to write them out. Sorry for making Grantaire sad.

It is hard to witness all your friends aspire to, or be, great without detesting yourself even a little bit for not wishing the same as them, for not even being on the same plane of divinity as them. He sits dejectedly, staring at the canvas, the colours on it blurring in front of his eyes into one big brown puddle. Garbage, he thought despondently, sighing. He had really tried on this piece; but the curve of the lips were too exaggerated, the golden ringlets of hair more a dull yellow than light. The expression he had tried to paint was blank, it lacked the vigour and passion. He would discard it with the rest.

 

The room is dark and dull, curtains drawn, blocking all but a tiny ray of light that illuminates the dust in the air. Papers and canvases litter the place alongside empty bottles. The sound of the bustling Parisian street below and outside made Grantaire despair at those who live with the earnest faith that things will improve and get better. Such naivety only bred pain. He rubbed at his temples, hard, in an attempt to picture the faces he was hoping to recapture and immortalise in paint but the images swam in front of his eyes as though they were trying to escape him. Perhaps in reality, the faces he felt more than a passing fondness for, were also trying to escape his company, but he, in his stupid drunken ways had thought their friendship reciprocated. Of course they didn't like him, why would they? 

 

That dark thought alone had him standing, angry and lonely and sad, and full of hatred towards himself and sheer pure love for those he called friends. He couldn't capture their essence in a single piece of art, and yet they could inspire and provoke thought and love in all people. If only they could inspire him, also. He turned away from his failure, carefully placing his brush on the small table beside him and let out an almost anguished sigh. He needed a drink, and then he would be able to laugh at himself. Because if he did not laugh he would be in tears. He could feel a familiar black and desolate fog fall over him.

 

He drank the last few drops from an open bottle, feeling his belly burn as the wine made it's way straight there. How long had it been since he had it last eaten? He was very thirsty. In his life, Grantaire had found the only happiness can be found at the bottom of a bottle of wine-- it was only in a state of complete intoxication that one was not _aware._ Being aware led to so much misery and discontent he had decided. Yes, he was happier believing in nothing. Stuff Enjolras, stuff Courfeyrac and Combeferre, stuff them all. He did not need their revolution; he was perfectly content in this dingy room, with his wine, where natural sunlight could not enter and candles only burned dimly.

 

And yet, he found himself tying his cravat, buttoning up his waist jacket, and donning his hat. His feet, damn them, took him to the one place he wanted to be, but also the one place that filled him with a difficult and dangerous radiance that he tried so hard to suppress. He smiled at his friends, as he sat beside them; but not with them, he viewed. He felt separated from them as though the blackness of his soul would tarnish their sweet, sweet, passion. He took a moment to memorise their faces, so that he could complete the canvas at a later date if he chose to.

 

There was Combferre, sombre and serious and smart; he had an air of the paternal. Stern, yet soft. A small brush would be needed to delicately shadow the ghost of stubble on his chin. Grantaire forced his eyes away from Combferre as the man's head turned, feeling Grantaire's gaze. Next, there was Jehan, lounging slightly in his chair. His face was set in a dimpled half-frown as he contemplated what was being said and Grantaire was jealous of the stars in his eyes. And Courfeyrac, oh, Grantaire had such trouble trying to paint Courfeyrac's smile which when aimed at you could make one feel like they were soaring with the clouds. No shade of red was just right, you see. Tufty hair, hat discarded on the table beside him, eyes twinkling as he listened and believed and loved everyone in the room, Grantaire felt a rush of warmth and instantly raised another bottle to his lips, imagining the wine extinguishing the fire in his belly with a smoky breath. He did not believe in this revolution.

Joly speaks, and Grantaire's artists eye runs over to him, and wishes with all his heart he could capture Joly's joy and simultaneous panic that he always held in his expression, his voice. But paint and pencil cannot make sound. A doctor, a student and a revolutionary but with the power to smile through any illness and accept love into his heart. Grantaire felt both a pang of pity and jealousy. And where there was Joly, Bosseut was never far. Bald head, reflecting the flickering of the candles, dark smouldering eyes that are watching Joly with a hard to read expression on his face but Grantaire imagines that it is how he would have liked to be looked at once upon a time. With parts adoration and expectation. No one expects much of Grantaire any more, and that suits him very well thank you very much. Feuilly too, sat, back straight after a day bending over materials stitching them into fans, a small bit of dirt on his nose, looking up to the others with awe and want and Grantaire, who thinks he doesn't respect much, respects Feuilly in ways he cannot express in that this boy reads and writes and marvels at the intelligence of this poor orphan when it is all Grantaire can do to string a sentence together that is on any significant importance. How was he supposed to show the dirt ingrained in the calloused crevices of the boy's skin, the years of toil and hard work? The struggle for bread, all etched on Feuilly's frame, but Grantaire could not for the life of him, find a way to pour the souls of his friends into their portraits.

 

Grantaire had avoided looking at Enjolras through the whole exchange, because once he did he knew he would struggle to look away again, such was his magnetism. Enjolras was an angel of the lord, frowning and severe but with a wonderful softness that came about when speaking of France, and Patria, and Change. He didn't make Grantaire want to be better, per se, but he instilled such faith and loyalty in you that for someone who had vowed to not believe in anything (and that included in persons) it was blindingly terrible and wonderful; and Grantaire would not, and will never know, how to instil or evoke such an emotion into his work, which is why his abandoned canvas back in his room will remain abandoned. And Enjolras, just for a moment, fixed his gaze on Grantaire, as though asking him to be roused, to speak up, before looking away as though he knew Grantaire would not. And just for that moment, Grantaire wished to believed in the way he believed in them. 

**Author's Note:**

> :)


End file.
